Chapter 161: A Request from the Villagers
"We’re just passing through," Inigo said.
The elder nodded slowly, her gaze lingering on the Apache for a moment before returning to his face. "Passing through or not... you saved our children. Our future. That’s not something we forget."
Around them, the village had begun to hum with cautious life again. The fires had been put out, smoke rising in thin trails from blackened rooftops. Neighbors helped each other rebuild fences, douse embers, and gather the wounded. But the air wasn’t heavy with mourning—it was threaded with relief, even joy.
The people of this village had seen death and lived.
By twilight, the town square was lit with lanterns—some salvaged, some hastily hung from wooden beams and rope poles. What little food they could spare was brought forth: roasted carrots and potatoes, flatbread warmed over hot stones, and spiced meat likely hunted from the nearby forest. It wasn’t much, but it was shared with reverence.
Inigo sat on a long bench made from old cart wood, his plate balanced on his knee. He watched as a small group of children chased each other around the base of the Apache, laughing and pointing every time they got near the cockpit. A few braver ones even touched the skids, treating it like the claw of a sleeping beast.
Lyra returned from helping the cooks serve stew, brushing her hair back as she took her seat beside him. Her hands were stained with onion and smoke, and she had flour on her cheek.
"You helped them cook?" he asked, raising a brow.
"I offered," she said simply. "It’s the least we can do. They’re feeding us with what little they have left."
He gave a nod, appreciating that. Lyra had always carried herself like a warrior, but here she was, ladling stew into bowls and helping set tables. Maybe it wasn’t just her who was learning from him—maybe he was learning from her too.
A group of villagers raised their mugs toward the center of the square. Someone tapped a wooden spoon against a pot.
The elder stood once again, leaning on her cane. "Tonight, we do not mourn. We give thanks," she said, her voice strong despite her age. "To the gods, to fate—and to our two protectors, who answered our cries from the sky."